


Intel II

by SkinSlave



Series: Tijuana Bible Study [10]
Category: John Wick (Movies), Marilyn Manson (Band)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Fisting, BDSM, Blood and Injury, Bondage, Burnplay, Caning, Face Punching, Implied/Referenced Torture, Interrogation, Masochism, Multi, Oral Sex, Threats of Violence, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-14
Updated: 2019-07-14
Packaged: 2020-06-28 02:43:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19803082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkinSlave/pseuds/SkinSlave
Summary: Interrogation Kink and Fisting with John Wick and Ms. Perkins(John Wick AU, circa 2004, interrogation fetish, implied torture, bondage, blood, burn play, anal fisting, oral sex)





	Intel II

"Just tell me who his target is," she smiled. "We don't have to keep doing this."

Marilyn looked up at her. His ice-colored eye stared out of a wall of blood from a gash on his orbital ridge. His bottom lip was swollen. His hair was sweat-soaked. She'd seen men give up the goods long before this point.

"But I'm so close," he purred.

"Fuck!" she groaned, well past frustration. "Why do you have to make this so hard?"

A lopsided grin spread across Marilyn's face. His mismatched eyes sparkled. She pinched the bridge of her nose.

"Don't..." she warned.

"But Ms. Perkins, you're the one making things har-"

She knocked the cheesy pun out of his mouth. He spat a bit of blood onto the dropcloth that covered the carpet. He licked his teeth, checking for chips, then sighed. She had taken her phone out and was dialing.

"Are you getting room service? I'd like to request strawberries and champagne," he called as she walked into the next room. "Tell them it's our first date!"

Alone in the room, Marilyn took a deep breath. He stretched and his boney shoulders popped. He lifted his arms over his head and down in front of his face. It only took a few minutes to undo the rope around his wrists. 

He looked down at his ruined dress shirt and sighed heavily. It hadn't been cheap. He pulled a flask from his back pocket and took a swig. He could hear Perkins' voice and two pairs of boots approaching.

"I _can_ handle an informant," she insisted. "I just…"

She stopped in the doorway and put a hand on her hip. Behind her, a stylishly dark figure loomed. He was all shaggy black hair, strategic stubble and attitude. John.

"Yeah, looks like you're doing great," he chuckled.

"Do you see what she did to my fucking shirt?" Marilyn whined, gesturing toward the cuts over his chest and stomach. "Not to mention the blue balls…"

The woman turned on her heel and threw her hands up, exasperated. John stepped around the corner and returned with a chair. He set it in the center of the dropcloth. Marilyn sat, still sulking a little. John knelt down.

"Do you want to tell me who Rico's target is?"

"I'm not saying shit," Marilyn pouted, "until Ms. Perkins finishes what she started. She's a cocktease."

John looked over his shoulder at the athletic brunette watching them. Her light eyes, ringed with smokey shadow, were full of questions. She'd never encountered this particular oddity and the rumors didn't do him justice.

"Ok," John sighed, standing. "Show me what you have for supplies and we'll get this done."

Marilyn grinned at the prospect of a happy ending. He sat quietly, as though bound to the chair. Patience would be rewarded. He shifted to give his returning erection the room it needed.

John and Perkins weren't gone long. When they returned, she stood front and center. John hung back, taking a more advisory position.

"Up," she barked. "Strip."

Behind her, John nodded. Marilyn stood and obeyed. His pale skin was a roadmap of scars, bruises and tattoos, a history of abuse. His cock, standing defiantly, betrayed how much he enjoyed it. He folded his slashed and stained clothes and started to sit.

"Uh uh. On your knees."

The white shape slid to the floor. Perkins moved the chair back and circled him. She put one thickly-heeled boot between his shoulder blades and shoved him forward. He landed on his hands, slipped on the dropcloth and fell to his elbows.

There was a sound like a whip and the room flashed red. The impact across Marilyn's raised ass broke the skin. It was a thin rod, a car antenna or something like it. His desperate keening cry echoed. Perkins laid stripe after stripe, grunting with effort, until she ran out of space. Blood dripped down the backs of his thighs.

John knelt in front of him and lifted his chin. He was breathing heavily, a bit uncomfortable in his now-tight slacks. He thumbed at Marilyn's tears and spread them over his purpling lower lip. They stung.

A cold, slick sensation over his ass brought him back out of the depth of John's eyes. He could feel a gloved finger teasing at his entrance. He sighed and pushed back. He was ready.

The finger sank in, then another. They bent toward the floor, pressing, searching. They found what they were looking for and Marilyn let out a weak, strangled moan. A third finger began to test the waters.

"Come on," the bottom gritted. "Do it."

John couldn't take any more. He freed his cock, throbbing at Marilyn's ruined beauty. He pushed into that wet heat and sighed. He could feel the eager tongue swirling around him, the firmness of the throat. A series of rising whines buzzed over his skin.

"Fuck!"

The gilded masochist pulled back as he shouted, a rope of spit bridging to John's cock. His contrasting eyes were wide with pain and panic. He shook and lurched. John clamped his hand onto the back of his neck and held him.

"You wanted this," he growled. "You begged for it. Now as long as you withhold that name, you're gonna get it. Understood?"

Marilyn nodded, tears washing flakes of dried blood from his cheek. He braced, sucked in a burning breath. A new sweat broke over his shoulders.

"Feels like a fucking telephone pole," he whimpered.

Perkins rubbed his flank with her free hand. A cool drizzle of lube ran everywhere. At least she was considerate.

"Haven't you ever been fingered on a first date?" she simpered. "I figured a slut like you would need more than one."

"How many?" he whispered.

"All of them."

Marilyn sobbed. He reached for his cock. It was so unbelievably hard. He reached for John, dug his nails into his thigh. Perkins slowly moved her fist, knuckling into his sweet spot, and he saw white.

"Hold still," John instructed. "Just stretch him."

She complied. The crushing heat around her hand was unlike anything. The way Marilyn was falling apart… She'd be lying if she said she wasn't enjoying it. Still, she needed to stay detached and salvage whatever scraps of professionalism she could.

John bent low. He laced his fingers through Marilyn's damp hair. He smelled like bourbon and gunpowder.

"Her entire arm is inside of you, whore," he whispered. "She's gonna tear you in two. All you have to do to make it stop is give us a name."

Marilyn whimpered. He pawed blindly, searching for flesh. He was so goddamn full. But he needed more. He needed to know if he'd split down the middle like a shoddy inseam. He needed to know if he could take it.

Maybe John understood. He straightened, offered his cock. Marilyn dove into it, sucking furiously. He bobbed his head, took longer strokes until his nose touched the shock of dark hair at the root. John held him in place. He struggled against his gag reflex.

"Now fuck him."

Perkins moved a fraction of an inch, as slowly as she could. It felt like a piston, every sensation heightened. Marilyn jerked backward and John let him. He sputtered and cursed.

"Gonna cum?" John asked softly, stroking his slippery cock.

He nodded and reached back to hold his own cock in a tight fist. Perkins' hand just kept moving, so slowly. Fresh lube dripped in a steady stream. Marilyn closed his eyes and let it wash over him. It was intense, sickly sweet, a searing pleasure that made his heart race and his mouth water.

John muttered something, but it didn't register. There was a metallic click from behind him and Perkins paused. Marilyn took a deep breath while he could. Smoke. John shifted, pressed the bottom's face against his stomach. 

When the burn came, it was quick and pointed, just below the neckline on his right shoulder. He arched and felt the thick of Perkins' hand anchoring him in place. He looked up, saw John lean to take another lit cigarette from her.

"Again."

John's hand quickened it's pace and his eyes flashed. He pressed the ember to Marilyn's skin, about an inch from the first burn. The groan he let out put John past the point of no return. He grabbed a handful of bottle-black hair and yanked his face up.

Just as the first volley of cum landed on Marilyn's lips, Perkins turned her hand and pushed. His mouth fell open, catching the next spray. His own cum drooled into a pool on the dropcloth. He could hear the woman gasp as he squeezed her hand.

John let go and slumped backward. He panted like he'd been sparring. Marilyn held still, trembling and whining. As soon as Perkins pulled her hand away, he folded. John sat up and brushed his hair back from his face.

"I don't think I've ever seen you so wrecked," he said fondly.

Marilyn murmured something in response. He coughed, took a few deep, shuddering breaths, and rolled onto his side.

"Franklin," he said hoarsely. "Rico wants Franklin. He's gonna be at the Oliver tonight, red room."

Perkins stood and left the room. She needed to wash the lube away and look up the building's floorplan. Marilyn rolled farther, sprawled on his back on the blood-flecked cloth.

"She still owes me a shirt."

John chuckled.


End file.
